Forgotten Kisses
by Willy Wonka is Wonking
Summary: In Neverland time seems to blur together; from days, to months, to years. So when he promised he wouldn't forget he meant it, but she never made the same promise.


The window wasn't open.

Peter floated up to the window, his fingertips pressing lightly over the textured glass as he stared into the dimly lit room.

It was Wendy's room; the same as it had always been, scattered with toys and other miscellaneous objects. Except there was only one bed.

Scrapping his mind for Wend's brothers names he wondered why John and Micheal's beds where gone.

Peering in through the glass he could make out Wendy drifting off to sleep looking younger then ever and her Mother smiling as she read from a very worn book. Pressing his forehead against the glass Peter could just make out the title 'Cinderella'. In his right hand, cool metal dug into his skin as he clenched his hand around Wendy's 'kiss'.

He smiled nostalgicly at the title. He had thought about Cinderella and her happily ever after. He had thought about Hook's words of the future and how Wendy would find her own happily ever after- without him.

But looking through the window he could tell nothing had changed. Wendy was still there staring sleepily in his direction. Her mother patted her hair softly before sending a long look out the window.

The window was closed.

But that was normal, Peter reasoned. It was snowing outside, he could feel goosebumps raise on the back of his neck even as he ignored the cold.

Wendy hadn't forgotten about him.

Wendy's mother seemed to meet his eyes, he was so shocked he bounced back flying away from the window and then upwards.

He heard foot steps and the sound of the window unlatching. The panel slid upwards and looking down he saw Wendy's mother looking out the window half of her body leaning out as she looked out almost frantically.

"Peter?" She called out so quietly he almost missed it. He stared down at the woman.

That couldn't be right, he thought, his earlier thoughts splintering. It had only been a few days, a few weeks. Wendy hadn't been gone that long. He'd seen her so often, thought of her every night, thought about how she wanted to grow up and he should let her do what she wanted. He wouldn't sanction her idea of growing up.

She stared out the window for a second longer, Peter didn't even dare to breath as he stared down at the woman below him.

She seemed to deflate, leening afay from the window and whiping her eyes. Sleep not tears, Peter thought to himself. She closed the window again, shutting the curtains.

Peter drifted downwards and peered throught the small crack in the curtains, he watched as the woman all but collapsed into the armchair besides her daughter's bed and let her head fall into her left hand.

Her hair was no longer wild around her head, and was instead pulled away from her face in a series of twist and braids. The same way her mother had always done her hair. Her chin, Peter thought, was the same. But everything else was different.

Her mouth was smaller, no longer dominating her face as it twisted into a tight frown. Her face was thinner, bonier. In the corner of her closed eyes Peter thought he could see the begining of lines etching into her face.

She was lovely. As lovely as her mother, more even.

And she was all grown up.

Peter had to clutch at the window sill to keep from slipping.

He took in more changes, the way she held herself, her back straight, the way she crossed her ankles instead of her legs, the way her other hand reached out to pet at the wild hair of her sleeping daughter.

They were the splitting image. Wendy and her daughter.

The door to the nursery cracked open, he saw the silhouette of a man spill into the room. He bit his lip when he noticed the way Wendy's eyes seemed to shine when she looked up at the man he couldn't see.

Wendy got out of the arm chair and left the room, her shadow talking the hand of that of the man. Not her father then. She didn't even look at the window.

If she had what she would have seen may have caused her to run to the window. To splay the curtains open and open the window again. To chase her child hood. But how was Wendy to know there was a single, sad glue eye staring as she walked out of the room. The way it lingered on her shadow and when the door shut the way it turned to her daughter.

A daughter who was the splitting image of Wendy from her wild brown hair to her strong jaw.

And maybe it Peter had looked closer, if he had looked away from Wendy and her daughter and her husband he would have seen the broken kiss sat upon a faded journal in the bookshelf.

Instead he left, not understanding. He let the 'kiss' slip from his hands not waiting to see it hit the ground, not listening for the deafening sound of the 'kiss' falling into the snow. It hadn't been a long time, had it?

The days blurred together to months to years to decades. He'd been so distracted, with Tink, and Hook and Neverland.

And now Wendy was all grown up.

He hadn't forgotten about Wendy, Wendy had forgotten about _him_.

A/N: I watched Peter Pan the other day with some friends and when looking at Peter Pan Fan Fictions I noticed there wasn't much on what actually happened. So I'm not sure where this piece of angst crawled up from but here it is.


End file.
